The Drug Lord of NYC
by RewritetoMakeitPerfect
Summary: Officer-in-training Clary Fairchild is forced to work with notorious ex-murderer, drug addict, and straight-out-of-the-cell Jace Herondale to undermine NYC's massive underground black market. But no matter how many times she tells herself that a relationship with him is impossible, Clary may have just developed an addiction of her own. AU/AH. R&R?
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything but the plot.

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 **JANUARY 3RD, 2001**

THE CELLS SMELL of piss and pit sweat.

Yellow lights flicker on and off from the popcorn ceiling and wet slaps echo from the rough stone floor. Mold has gathered in between bars and at the corners of walls, a result of the constant drip of rainwater or leaking sewage into the reddish-brown jailhouse. The stairs are made of cheap, stale iron and the railings are rusted orange. Hands grope the air outside of the cells, and the only words audible in the vast contraption of traps belong to those asking for another rice cake, water, or toilet paper. The warden flips then off and shoves the shackled boy forward, onward, to his cell.

"Don't kill yourself," the officer says nastily, smirking at his own terrible joke. Without leaving the prisoner a chance to reply, he shoves him into the cell and tugs the key out of the lock. He takes one more look at the locked-up boy and something along the likes of pity morphs his face. _So young_.

After the warden saunters down the hall, twirling his chain of keys around his finger, the prisoner slumps against the jail wall, exhausted. His arms are restrained and bound into a straitjacket across his ribs, and the entire way here he has been pulling at them, desperately trying to raise it above his head and out. Now, leaning against the wall, he attempts again at an impossible cause. These are not gimmicked camisoles in magic tricks. These are not costumes in action films. These are straitjackets, bound around the back, under his crotch, and so tight around the chest and armpits breathing is difficult.

The first time his shoulder rams into the concrete wall, it's only pain that lances through his arm.

The second time, there's an undeniable crack, at which he groans.

The third and last time, a distinct pop and snap resonates against the walls, and before he blacks out, his arms slide up over his head and the jacket comes loose.

...

 **FEBRUARY 15TH, 2001**

IT'S SO QUIET his heartbeats can be heard.

Sweat flows from his temples down to his jaw, running down to his chin and falling to the ground of the padded cell. He blinks drops of perspiration from his eyes. There is no feeling in his elbows, his shoulders. His feet are numb and and his spine is sore, his ears tired of listening to his own heavy pants every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every week of the month he's stayed in the tiny, muffled room.

The door swings open and the warden ambles in. He stuffs a plate of moist sponge cake under the boy's nose. "Want some?"

There's no reply, and the warden takes it as a sign of denial. "No? I guess it's my lucky day."

The cake gets stuffed down the warden's throat, and then he walks to the door. He stops in his tracks and opens his mouth as if to say something, but then decides against it and continues on his way out.

The cell belongs to a single person again.

...

 **JUNE 30TH, 2003**

"WHERE IS HE?"

"This way, madam," the warden says quickly and gestures to the corridor.

"Lead the way, Enoch."

The two move down the hallway to the end cell and Enoch fumbles with with the lock before it clicks open. The moment the door gives away, the scent of bile and the stink of decay wafts out of the cell, and the warden glances up at the woman worriedly. She, however, shows no sign of disgust, and Enoch lets out a breath of relief. Silently, she steps into the mold-infested room and looks around with an almost inquisitor-like manner, before turning her attention to the hunched boy at the far corner of the cell. Without looking at the warden, she asks, "Is this him?"

"Yes, madam," Enoch answers quietly, and then raises his voice to the prisoner. "Hey, wake up."

"He's not asleep, I'm sure," the woman remarks, and walks closer to the boy despite Enoch's protests.

"He's a murderer, madam, of nine people. Heroin addict, alcohol addict-"

"How long as he been in here?" she interrupts, eyes never leaving the boy.

"Two and something years, madam," he reports almost proudly.

"Has he shown any violence during his stay?"

"Not to staff, but he dislocated his shoulder trying to get rid of the jacket and gauged the eye out of his cellmate. That's why he's in the padded."

"Look at me," she demands, and Enoch's head shoots up. "Not you. _You_ can leave."

"Of course, madam." His face flushes as he stumbles out of the room, closing the door behind him.

The boy raises his head just a fraction of an inch, but it's enough for the woman to get a look of him. His eyes are sunken and darkly bagged, wild and dull at the same time. His cheeks are sallow and sharp from hunger and thirst, but most of all craving. She narrows her eyes. "Do you know who I am?"

After a moment of silence, he croaks out, "Am I supposed to?"

"If you wish to cooperate, we can cut your sentence in half. You were not of age yet when you killed them, were you?" She ignores his reply.

"Does it matter? I'll have died ten times by the time I'm allowed out. Three hundred-twenty years less won't make any fucking difference." He spits onto her shiny shoe. His words are slightly garbled, a result of not talking for such a long period of time.

"You won't be in a straitjacket as long as you behave," she says, catching his eye. "That's a difference, isn't it?"

"Behaving is being in a straitjacket, just not physically." He has the nerve to grin, but the woman is not impatient. Just stern and firm.

"Does that mean you are turning down my offer? I will not ask again."

The boy's jaw works for a few moments before he almost growls. "I never said that."

"Then what are you saying?"

"I need to think about it," he says, but uncertainly. "A few days."

"Well, if you're so unconcerned with staying here, I might as well find someone more eager," the woman muses deliberately and begins walking away.

She's at the door when the boy caves. "Wait."

"Yes?" She turns around.

"I'll do it."

"Wonderful," the woman says, and smiles. It makes her look ten years younger than she really is. "I'm Imogen. You are...?"

The boy mumbles something intelligible.

"What was that?" Imogen asks.

He says it louder this time.

"Jace."

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 **-RtMiP**


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing but the plot.

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 **JULY 1ST, 2003**

"CLARY, YOU'RE ABOUT to be late!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming," I call and reach for my dresser for my badge, but my hand comes back empty. Quickly, I scan the room for the last piece of my uniform, but again, there's nothing. After two patdowns of myself, three checks in the closet, and about two dozen hollers from Isabelle, I snatch up the little devil from underneath my bed and rush down the stairs, nearly tripping on the way.

Isabelle has her slender arms crossed over her chest, an exasperated expression reserved just for me. "Badge?"

"Right here," I say breathlessly and hold up the pin. She snatches it from my hands and stabs it through the front of my shirt, pricking my boobs.

"You know, you really have got to get it together," Isabelle warns, "or Imogen's going to give you the boot before you even get hired."

"Sorry!" I say and jump down the porch steps, having gotten used to Isabelle's reprimanding demeanor ever since I moved in with her. She follows quickly but elegantly and gets into the driver seat with me in the shotgun. Just for kicks, she slaps the siren onto the car roof and steps on the gas, hard. I roll my eyes, knowing it's a horrible way to take advantage of our status and occupation, but I know it's useless telling her off. And she's the one telling _me_ that _I'll_ get the boot.

As if she can read my mind, Isabelle says, "I'm only doing it for the sake of time, Clary. Besides, we can't give the addict a bad impression of us on the first day, can we?"

Speaking of impressions, we round the corner at break-neck speed, and Isabelle slams the breaks just in time to avoid crashing into a sick-looking person in front of the Department. I have to brace myself against the seat to stop myself from crashing face-down against the top of the storage compartment and earn a broken nose. When I look up at the lucky, or rather unlucky, person, I feel my eyes widen considerably. The man standing just a mere meter away from the front of the car is...like a chained angel, torn of dignity and beauty. Where did _that_ come from? No, he's still beautiful, with sharp, unforgettable features and deepset golden eyes. But there's a desperate look in his eyes, and just as I realize who he is, Isabelle whispers, "Well well, what have we done to go to heaven?"

I flinch and quickly get out of the car. Though I should look around for Imogen and apologize profusely, I can't keep my eyes away from the prisoner. Taking a deep breath, I remember myself and walk towards him, offering my hand. He raises a blond eyebrow and jingles his handcuffs. I curse myself for forgetting, and then clear my throat. "I'm Clary. You must be-"

"Jace!" comes a voice from within the building. I recognize it as Imogen's. "Step away from the road this instant!"

The golden-haired man remains statuesque, and I peer behind him to the Department entrance. Like I'd predicted, Imogen steps out into the front lawn with her usual no-nonsense expression directed at the unmoving Jace. My hand moves involuntarily to the badge, adjusting it, or rather, fumbling with it. She walks briskly towards us, and even Isabelle tenses. No one messes with Imogen.

"Clary," she greets me and nods, "Isabelle. Glad you're here."

Isabelle and I look at each other, and I'm sure her look of confusion is reflected on my face. Although just and polite, Imogen is hardly 'glad' we arrive, even on time. Please let this last.

"This," she introduces, "is Jace Herondale, our ticket to the ground."

Isabelle almost chokes. I bite my lip and see Jace's molten eyes flicker towards me. He looks...young. Tall, but young. Young means unreliable, and unreliable means risky. Risky means death, and death means truly going _under_ ground. I let my lip relax and take a deep breath before asking as calmly as I can, "Are you sure he's...sober?"

Jace cracks a smile, but doesn't say anything. At least he can show emotion. Imogen, on the other hand, silences me with a glare, and I shrink back, taking that as a 'yes' for my question. Isabelle ends the silence with, "So...when do we start?"

"I was thinking you might want to get to know one another first? You girls _will_ be posing as his, after all." I don't understand how Imogen can say that with a straight face.

"Right," Isabelle says, back to her sly and cheerful self. She winks at Jace and I know she won't have any trouble at all.

Me, on the other hand...

Imogen, being the friend of my mother, being the wife of my father, being the Chief of NYC's police department, has been hard pressed to squeeze me into this project. I'm technically not supposed to graduate the department for another two years, but they've told me that I'll get a pass if this mission goes successfully. And of course, it just _has_ to be the most difficult mission in the entire universe. Maybe not, but it's not far from Mission Impossible. Isabelle and I are to pretend to be Jace's lassies as he goes back to Pandemonium (NYC's black market), while undermining its secrets. No matter how hard I try to think of this scenario from a professional perspective, I keep finding myself looking back to the 'ticket.' Where Isabelle is sexy and seductive, just like a girl born from the market, I am freckled and awkward, a girl born from books.

"...inside and talk," Imogen's saying, and my attention snaps back to her. She has her eyes trained on me again, and I manage a weak smile. "Isabelle, please don't let Clary touch any of the stuff."

I blink, confused. _What stuff_ _?_

But before I can ask, Imogen whips away into the police car parked beside us, tearing the sirens down from the roof and glaring at Isabelle. She shrugs and points at me, but I'm not fast enough to react. Imogen only sighs and slams the door shut, driving the vehicle away. It leaves the duo and the third wheel left in the lot, and Isabelle's already hanging off of Jace's arm in a carefully controlled and practiced way. He's not interested, even when she purrs, "Let's get you unlocked, shall we?"

Isabelle leads him away and Jace lets her do it like a robot. She turns around and sticks her tongue out at me and I scrunch up my face behind her back.

 _Hallelujah._

* * *

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 **-RtMiP**


	3. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing but the plot.

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THE TEA IS getting cold, but I don't touch it.

Isabelle's glaring at me, trying to get me talking, but I stubbornly pretend that I'm oblivious. Jace's leaning back casually, staring out the window, and I can't get the uneasy feeling out of my stomach. He seems so... _strange_. Does being in jail make a person silent? Withdrawed? Or is the presence of two police officers subduing him automatically? We've been sitting in the foyer of the Department for little less than an hour, staring at tea and coffee and stale biscuits. The chairs are uncomfortable and the table is low enough to make all of us too lazy to reach for the drinks. _Awwwkward._

It's getting to the point of unbearable when Jace turns to me. "You the prettiest they could muster up?"

I'm so shocked to hear his voice at all that his words don't quite register when they first exit his mouth. And then it sinks in, and Isabelle purses her lips to keep from laughing. Angry, I retort, "Isn't she enough for you?"

This time, Isabelle flushes and shoots me daggers. I blatantly ignore her and find satisfaction in Jace's raised eyebrows. He shrugs and says smoothly, "The more the merrier."

I wrinkle my nose in disgust and look away. I can _not_ believe he'd had the guts to say it in front of us. Wait no, cut that. He _does_ have the guts - and those guts of his are what made Imogen too weary to yell at us for speeding. I try to push away the growing blush in my cheeks, but fail miserably when Jace smirks at me. What the hell is wrong with him? What the hell is wrong with _me_?

"So..." Isabelle drawls out, flexing her fingers. "Anyone hungry?"

"More than you imagine," Jace says, jumping at her words with uncharacterstic enthusiasm. But who am I to guess at his personality when I've met him for less than an hour? Then again, at this rate, I'll _never_ get to know him.

"Great," I say with forced cheerfulness, "I'll get some sandwiches from the fridge-"

"I know a restaurant around the corner," Isabelle offers sweetly and leans towards Jace. "You like seafood?"

He flashes her a brilliant smile, and I notice a tiny chip in one of his front incisors. _Ha, at least he's not_ perfect. "Sounds good."

As the two get up and head towards the doors, I gape. How Jace manages to stay courteous with Isabelle and not me, I don't understand. Had I done something to offend his Royal Blondheadedness? Quickly, I follow them out the building and have to look around the parking lot before spotting the cruiser they'd chosen. Isabelle's driving, Jace's in shotgun, and I'm in the backseat, where the lawbreakers sit. Goody.

Once I'm in the car, Isabelle begins rambling on about how excited she is to have the chance to work with him and how insane it would be to see the market up close. But the more she talks, I notice, the more wary and guarded Jace's expression becomes. That's when I realize Isabelle's not _actually_ infatuated with him, but rather trying to gain his hard-to-get trust. There's no telling whether he'd ditch us for his old comerades and rejoin the club life. I open my mouth to say something, but the divider window 'coincidentally' slides up, blocking them from view. I can't even hear what they're saying.

So much for trust-building.

* * *

TAKI'S IS LARGE but squat, like a building that's sitting rather than standing, or maybe even laying down. The other two waltz in casually, with Jace's arm around Isabelle's shoulders. I, on the other hand, linger behind them before entering, uncomfortable with the occupancy of the place. Never have I ever particularly enjoyed crowded places, and the volume of them makes it worse. The waitress, Kaelie, rakes her eyes down Jace's body, but immediately averts her eyes when she sees Isabelle. That's no surprise - nothing suits Jace more than her long, tan legs and hourglass hips. Not to mention those boobs.

With her and Jace taking up most of the booth, I manage to hang off the edge with half my butt dangling from the seat in a poor attempt to get as far away from the already-formed couple as possible. Kaelie raises her eyebrows at me but doesn't say anything, obediently taking orders and flouncing away. At least, her swaying hips are what I'm focusing on, for I can't stand to look at those two.

"So, _Clarissa_."

I whirl around in my seat and narrowly avoid falling onto the restaurant floor. Jace has his aureate eyes on me, heavy-lidded and wicked. "What?"

"Not very eager, are we?" he asks while twirling a strand of Isabelle's chocolate-colored hair.

"There's nothing to be eager about," I reply as evenly as I can, and again look away.

"Then we might need a better actress." He doesn't miss a beat.

"Please, I'm more eager than most. None of the others want to work with..." I glance at him, trying not to break my mean facade. "Someone like you."

Jace raises a golden eyebrow. "Afraid they'd fall in love and get dumped?"

My fists clench and I tell myself to take a deep breath. Just as I'm about to say something pathetic along the lines of, _You wish_ , Isabelle speaks up with, "Why'd Imogen choose you, Jace?"

"Yes, _please_. Imogen never makes mistakes," I coo with as much sarcasm as I can.

"Seems like she makes them often, actually," he observes calmly and looks at me.

I flush angrily and fold my arms across my chest as Kaelie comes back with crab legs and oyster sauce. I wish there were crab claws.

Only for defense purpsoses, obviously.

"I bribed her," he answers Isabelle.

She snickers and I knit my eyebrows and stutter, "E-excuse me?"

"You must be gullible even among women," Jace notes.

 _Sexist son of a bitch._

The restaurant quiets down considerably, and I look around, only to see that everyone's looking at me.

"Please don't tell me I said that out loud," I whisper, cringing.

"If you mean 'sexist son of a bitch,'" Jace says geefully, "then yes, you did."

I groan and bury my face in my hands, too humiliated to look up.

 _Now_ that's _what jail does to people._

* * *

 **Notice:** Jace isn't sexist. He's basically a delinquent in the beginning, but afterwards, he matures a lot. You'll see.

 **Review.**

 **-RtMiP**


	4. Chapter 3

**Discliamer:** I own nothing but the plot.

 **Thanks:** Again, the response I'm getting to this story is much better than my other stories'. So that's why I'm prioritizing this fic over _I Will Come Back._ I know I'm shamelessly self-promoting but... Feel free to check that one out too! ;)

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PANDEMONIUM IS FRIGHTENING, to say the least.

After Taki's, Isabelle and I change into dresses that show more skin than not and Jace leads us to an abandoned church near the coastline and introduces it to us as the Institute, one of two hidden entrances to the market. Outside, it looks like the victim of a Holloween toilet-paper attack, with strips of white hanging down its rotting wooden beams that only upon a closer look do I realize are actually cobwebs. But the moment Jace bangs the brass knocker in a funny rhythm that I don't quite catch, a panel in the door slides roughly open and two cold blue eyes glare out at us.

I'm about to hold up my hand and badge when I realize that I didn't bring it for fear of losing it or being found. Isabelle smiles sweetly and I do my best to copy her relaxed, sexy posture. That's when someone slaps my butt and squeezes slightly. I squeal, jumping a little, and look down just in time to see Jace retract his hand poker-faced. I feel myself flushing more than I ever have and my heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my head.

The person's eyes widen and disappear from the view of the slot. A moment later, the door whines open and a tall, lanky boy I'd immediately place as a no-good hooligan comes into view. Without warning, he steps forward and pulls Jace into a hug, throwing Isabelle aside. She isn't even miffed...as if she knows him. I watch as the boy finally pulls away and grins. The smile strangely makes him seem more innocent.

"It's been two years, hasn't it?" he asks, his voice deep and friendly.

"More like forever." I wasn't aware that Jace is capable of replying to someone with any amount of courtesy. "Can we...?"

The boy's face darkens at that and pulls Jace to the corner of the Institute, eyes on me. Although the distance is not very far, I can't hear a word of their seemingly intense conversation and he seems to even keep lip movements to a minimum. Unease builds within me and I glance at Isabelle, who's also trying to eavesdrop, but without success. After Jace replies quickly, they return to the entrance and the boy holds out his hand, although the friendly demeanor is gone. "Alec."

"Clary," I say and instead of taking his hand, I wink as seductively as I can.

It works, I think, because he looks away slightly. That's not enough, though, as I want to be able to draw out blushes.

I snap out of my fantasies to see Isabelle and Alec exchange a funny look of something like recognition and before I know it, I'm being ushered into the Institute.

Into Pandemonium.

* * *

FOR THE NOTORIOUS black market, it's clean and presentable.

In fact, it's orderly for any massive organization. More like an office building than a criminal-infested slaughterhouse, Pandemonium is nothing but professional. It even radiates a Victorian Era feel, what with the use of old but polished wood, plush red carpet through the entire first floor, and a winding spiral staircase that took up a large portion of the center of the room. Ten feet tall paintings hang on the walls, each one depicting a person and offering a small description. I look around until my gaze lands on a painting far back against the room, behind the staircase, that is slightly larger than the rest. In it is a delicious-looking man with silver hair and sharp but refined features that for some reason reminds me of Jace - cold, aloof, dangerous.

Before I can ask who he is, Alec stops us. "It's not the same as it was."

"I can see that," Jace says, surveying the hall. "Sebastian's the thing now?"

Alec nods reluctantly while searching the other boy's face for any sign of anger. If Jace's disappointed, he hides it well. Then, after an awkward falling out in the conversation, Alec turns to me and Isabelle. He points to us with his chin and asks, "These yours?"

I have to hold back a flinch when Jace nods, but Isabelle smirks and purrs, "Jealous?"

"Only of you," he replies and turns away. I wonder what his words mean - him being jealous of Izzy?

Just as I'm about to question him, the staircase creaks and all heads swivel upwards. The man in the large painting is standing at the top of the steps, looking down at us like a predator, though we are four and he is one. There's a familiar smile on his face - one that Jace wears all the time, and one that belongs to someone who knows something you don't - as he descends the stairs leisurely. When he speaks, his voice melts over me as if made of chocolate. "Well, well, what have we here? An early release from the bars, is it? Or did you spoon your way out?"

If I thought Jace was bad before, this man is worse. It's not his words, but the _manner_ in which he speaks them. As if he has all the time in the world. As if no one deserves to hear him talk. As if everyone should be listening to his every syllable like they're gold coins. Without meaning to, I frown and cast him a disproving look.

"Straitjackets make it this much more difficult to hold a spoon, much less use one," Jace says and holds up his thumb and index finger just slightly apart. "But I appreciate your confidence in me."

The man is at the bottom of the stairs now and tightens his white gloves like the maniacal surgeons one can only see in horror movies. He doesn't seem the least bit fazed by Jace's bold and arrogant behaviour, or vise versa. "Please do not misunderstand me, Jace, I'd rather you stay in that fancy jacket of yours. I'm only hoping that the Feos have enough sense to not let you out so soon. Unfortunately..."

I look back and forth between them, wondering what their problem is, when the man says almost wearily, "Enough of the babble. Why are you here?"

"You should know better than anyone why I'm here, Sebastian," Jace responds, his usually molten eyes hardening into stone.

"And _you_ , my friend," Sebastian says, rolling the word 'friend' around his tongue before spitting it out venomously, "should know better than anyone that the answer's no."

The pieces slowly come together and the last few that are missing fit into place when Jace hisses, fire burning in his eyes, "What makes you think you can have any say? I never abdicated."

" _Please_ , Jace, we _all_ know getting caught means being weak enough to let the cuffs find you. Don't make this more difficult it needs to be." Whereas Jace is a flame, Sebastian is all ice.

That's when Isabelle speaks up. I admire her for her boldness. Batting her eyelashes and pouting at the golden-haired boy, she says in a sickly sweet voice, "This isn't as fun as you promised it to be, hun. When do I get to see the market?"

It's then I notice I'm standing slightly too far away from Jace to make my character believable, so I quickly make an attempt to patch it up by walking towards him and then tugging at his white collar. But even that revolts me and I can't muster up the courage to say anything, knowing that my throat will somehow manage to make my voice sound like a man's. You never know.

"Who're these?" Sebastian asks, running his coal-black eyes down Isabelle's curvaceous shape hungrily. I resist the sudden urge to throw up.

Jace instinctively slings his arms around both of our shoulders and pulls us close, very nearly making me trip on my several-inch-tall stilettos.

"My definition of fun," he drawls out, letting the sentence almost take on a southern accent. "Meet Belle and Claire."

"Belle," Sebastian repeats, and then his frighteningly dark eyes rivet onto me. " _Claire_."

Claire's an...interesting name. I swallow thickly, hoping that my pounding heart wouldn't give me away. Jace must be able to feel it through my sparkly and thin outfit, what with the proximity between us. Still, he keeps up the carefree personality when he warns, "Don't touch 'em."

"I would dream of it. Redheads aren't my type..." Sebastian trails off. "Or anyone's, for that matter. Funny how you managed to snatch two girls up so quickly after being released, isn't it?"

"Maybe uncommon for you, but never for me," Jace says and gives Isabelle a quick peck on the ear. Thank goodness he didn't choose me. Sometimes being short is an advantage. "I'll be paying you another visit tomorrow, just to see if you change your mind."

"And if I don't?" Sebastian asks, half out of curiosity and half out of mockery.

Jace's eyes glint in the dim light of the Institute.

"You will."

* * *

"THIS IS WHERE you live?"

I cross my arms across my chest and narrow my eyes. "Anything wrong?"

"Of course," Jace exclaims. "It's messier than a pig's den."

"Funny coming from you, the King of all messes," I retort, but quickly kick a magazine under my bed.

Isabelle's out with her usual gang of 'friends,' or if it goes my way, ' _beer-buddies_ ,' to a night club, sadistically leaving Jace alone with me. He has nowhere to stay, and I can't really afford to rent him an apartment, so we're staying here. Of all places, _here_. I shove some things off my unmade bed and quickly gather books into a riskily high stack, and the gesture to the now somewhat clear space. "You can sleep on my bed and I'll bunk with Isabelle. She's practically never here anyway..."

I stop talking at the sight of disgust distorting Jace's usually controlled features. Fury blooms in my stomach and I snap, "Or would you rather sleep on a park bench across the street? That's fine, too."

"You live in this rathole _alone_?" he asks incredulously, ignoring my sarcastic offer. "Not afraid someone's going to break in and rob the place?"

"I don't keep much cash on me, so it doesn't really matter," I say, brushing his comment aside.

"I was referring to your virginity, but take it how you wish."

My fist nearly makes a hole in the wall. I tell myself to breathe. In a voice shaking with frustration, I say, "Jace, here's a tip. Do your best to not make me angry. Because when I get angry, I become very, _very_ scary, and that won't be good for either of us."

"Hmm," he murmers. "Were _you_ doing _your_ best back there in the Institute? Didn't look like it to me."

"That's different," I say, trying to calm down.

"How different?"

"Different, because I'm the officer here and you're the prisoner. Different, because I'm the one who gets to say what you're saying, _not_ you." I have no idea where this comes from, but at this point I can't care less. Jace's personality is seriously getting on my nerves.

"So this _is_ about power-greediness. Didn't know you were like your father, Clarissa Morgenstern," he says slyly but carefully.

I feel myself go still. "How do you know who my father is?"

"I keep my enemies close," he replies, but something in his voice doesn't make me believe him. There's something more.

Still, I know not to prod at this point and instead say, "'Cause you have no friends to keep closer?"

The side of his mouth curls up into a lopsided grin and he shakes his head. "Not bad. Not bad at all."

Triumph blossoms in my chest and I stand a little taller. Then I shrink. _What do I care about what he thinks of me?_

All of a sudden, the window nearest to us shatters and a familiar firecracker sound fills my mind.

A bullet is embedded into the wall an inch from Jace's ear.

* * *

 **Review**.

 **-RtMiP**


	5. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing but the plot.

* * *

A BULLET IS embedded into the wall an inch from Jace's ear.

"Get down!" I say, and then realize that it's in a whisper. But he's on the ground faster than I am, and the movement makes the floorboards creak. After several minutes of strained listening, I breathe and sit up, eyes on the hole in the beige wall behind us. Jace takes his time getting up, though he's not the least bit dazed or frightened, judging by his perfect poker face. I quickly run to the window and peer out cautiously.

There's another firecracker _pop_ and I feel arms drag me back with so much force we get thrown into the bookshelf. Only when I open my eyes do I realize they were tapered shut. Jace's arm is around my stomach and I'm sure he can feel the pounding of my heart. I let my breathing return to normal before I untangle myself from him. Breathlessly, I allow, "Thanks."

"Better be," he remarks and moves out of my personal bubble. Walking over to the wall, Jace fingers the holes and then grabs the lamp off the nightstand. I'm about to protest, until I see what he's doing - holding the head of the lamp over the cracked parts of the plaster and moving out of the window's sunlight range. There's another crack and a bullet passes clean through the golden fabric and lightbulb. I can't resist cringing at the thought of buying another.

Before I begin a budget rant, Jace holds out his free hand and says, "Gun."

"Wh-what?" I stutter, blinking.

"You heard me. Give me your gun." He pauses and then urges, "Quickly."

I have no idea _what_ I'm thinking, but I fumble around the drawer until my hand bumps into a cold, bumpy surface. I grab the Lawman and push it into Jace's palm and watch as he drops the lamp and steps straight into the frame of light the shape of the window makes against the attacked wall. I lunge for him, _Jace_ forming on my lips, but faster than a blink of an eye, he lifts the gun in perfect form and fires. The noise from this up-close stuns my ears for moment.

My jaw drops and my eyes bulge. "H-how... Wh-what...?"

He shakes the hand that fired the gun and looks at me with a smirk. D"Want to help me clean up the body?"

I gulp, confused. "What body?"

Jace smirks and points with the barrel of the gun towards the window. I reluctantly move towards the shattered glass, picking my way over the shards on the ground. When I reach dead centre, I peer out and gasp. There's a huge panther-like shape draping from a tree a hundred yards out, suspiciously resembling a human. I squint and make out the head, the gun and the leg that's caught between two thick boroughs.

Suddenly, another dark form races into view and drags the person out of the tree and away into an alley. I get pushed out of the way and Jace jumps the window despite being at least twelve feet up. I debate for a couple precious seconds and then follow suit, swinging one leg after another and landing with a messy roll. For someone who's spent his last two years in a cell and restricted to move for the majority of the time, he can _run_.

"Jace, get back!" I yell and watch as he enters the alley. The houses are sparse behind my condo, leading into a rare piece of lawn in the busy city.

Just before he completely disappears from sight, something metallic flashes in his hands.

 _Crap_. I wince at the thought of what Imogen would do to me if she finds out that I let a criminal, though out of jail, get their hands on a weapon. I use my arms to pump myself forward faster and round the bend into the alley, expecting to see a brawl of some sort. Instead, it's quiet.

In a voice as loud as I dare to make it, I whisper-call, "Jace?"

There's no response. Have they exited the alley already? I look wildly around, panic rising like bile, and after a few minutes, the sound of crunching gravel from the opposite side of the alley gets my attention. Jace appears, clutching his stomach with one hand and supporting himself against the wall of the house with the other. The gun is nowhere to be seen.

But what scares me most, however, is the dark rose blooming on his white shirt and the deathly paleness of his complexion. I rush forward just as Jace collapses, leaning against the wall. As I near him, I can see his chest rising and falling quickly in shallow breaths, a sheen of sweat on his forehead and neck.

Worry clogs up my throat as I crouch beside him and remove his hand from the wound, but even before I see the actual injury, the metallic smell overwhelms me. I have never been good with blood, and never in my life have I seen _this_ much of it. Holding my breath, I tug at the hem of his shirt and bring it up to his sternum. That's where I find trouble. It's difficult removing the clothes with fumbling hands, and it's near _impossible_ to remove clothes from a limp body.

After pulling both his arms out of the thankfully short sleeves, I crumple the now red tie-dye shirt into a wad and press it against his stomach. My arms are shaking not from exhaustion but apprehension. What is Imogen-

 _What the hell, Clary? He's dying and you're still thinking about yourself? At this rate, you have no right of criticizing Jace for being narcissistic._ I grimace and wipe my hands on my slippery, sparkly dress that I hadn't had a chance to change out of and grab my phone. My thumb hovers above the all too familiar speed dial for a moment before I stop in my tracks.

I can't call Imogen. Or the hospital, for that matter. I hate myself for being so selfish, but the other option isn't _that_ terrible...is it?

Too late, my finger presses down on the screen and the ringing begins.

A garbled voice comes from the other side of the line. "What's up?"

"Emergency, Lewis. I'm in the fifteenth alley down from the road behind my apartment," I say quickly, glancing at Jace's unmoving form. His breathing is definitely getting slower.

"Be there in five...or ten." He hangs up. That's what I like about him - no questions asked.

What I _don't_ like about him however...

I sigh and look at Jace. With his face neutral but not forcefully neutral, he looks like a child, almost. Not his facial features, but his expression. If it weren't for the slight crease between his eye brows signifying pain, I'd have thought him to be sleeping. Dark tattoos swirl around his chest, stomach, and shoulders in patterns I can't make out, as if they carry a secret message or something.

I continue applying pressure until I hear a voice from the other end of the alley. "You didn't tell me to bring a stretcher!"

 _Gee,_ I think deliriously, _I wonder what 'emergency' means?_

As I wait for the not-so-reliable doctor to get something to lift Jace up on, I lift the shirt slightly and then frown as my eyes land on the ink where blood seems to be sprouting from. It's the only one I can make out, despite being messier than the rest.

The painting of what looks like the letter 'H' with three dots along one of the strokes stands out against the skin just above his hipbone. Ruined.

I can't shake the feeling I've seen this symbol before. Somewhere...

And worse, I can't shake the feeling that it's something important.

* * *

 **Notice:** Clary is not selfish. She's somewhat slow to react in the beginning, but later on she becomes more experienced and professional, like how Jace will become more mature.

 **Glossary:** I realized I forgot to explain what a Feo was in the previous chapter. It's slang for police in New York.

 **News:** I just came back from my middle school graduation party and I asked and got rejected by two boys on the dance floor. Hip hip hooray...

 **Review.**

 **-RtMiP**


	6. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing but the plot.

* * *

"WHAT THE HELL, Clary? I leave you for _one_ evening and you come back to me with this?" Isabelle rages in the tiny living room of a foreign house. "How do you expect me to trust you with anything else?"

I flinch at her aggression but let her yell to her heart's content. It _is_ my fault, after all. While she's a year older and nearly certified, I know I'm far from reliable. The problem is, I can't be seen doing anything else related to police work until the mission is completed or the gangs will know that Jace isn't really just a long-time-no-see friend but a prisoner given a second chance to clear his name. Unfortunately, that also means that Imogen can't fire me and ask for a replacement. I'm not sure which is worse - messing up every step of the way or not having a chance to mess up at all.

 _Do little, err few. Do much, err often. Do nothing, err never._

Doing nothing is not an option.

"...going to kill us!" Isabelle's voice brings me back to reality. "What if he dies? What if that stupid doctor of yours-"

"Simon," I say automatically.

"-proves to be a scam?" she nearly shrieks, very unlike her usual self. It's obvious she's stressed and anxious.

"He's not a scam," I mumble under my breath and she whirls on me.

"I don't care if he's real or not! He refused to show me his medical school diploma and-"

"He's performing surgery, Izzy! Of course he doesn't have the time to dig something as flimsy as a piece of paper out," I snap, and then instantly regret it. I have no right defending myself, or Simon.

"For two hours!" Isabelle trills, and then _humphs_. "And what's with _'flimsy'_?"

I grimace and shrug awkwardly. My mind is so pre-occupied with the thought of my ticket dying that I don't really register what I'm doing anymore. _I could've stopped him from jumping out the window. I could've caught up with him and prevented him from chasing that intruder on his own. I couldve said no to giving him the gun._ Or could I have? "I'm sorry, okay? I shouldn't have let him run off."

"Of course you shouldn't have! If Imogen gets word of this, we'll be damned for the rest of our lives," she groans, finally stopping her pacing and falling heavily onto the space on the dirty couch next to me. "What were you _thinking_ , Clary?"

"I tried to stop him, but he..." I wince. "He was too fast."

Isabelle blinks. And then bursts out into laughter. " _Him_ , faster than _you_? You might not be the best in the batch of us officers, but he just came out from being cooped up in a jailhouse for two years. Not-"

"I know, Izzy. But can we _please_ stop yelling and ask ourselves why he was targetted?" I plead, folding my arms tightly around myself.

She looks at me as if I'd grown a second head. "How have you not figured it out yet? Sebastian's afraid Jace'll get the better of him, obviously!"

"Oh. Right," I manage, flushing at my own stupidity. "Um, then how do we tell Imogen that Jace killed someone?"

"He _WHAT_?!"

"He, ah, kind of shot someone?" I brace myself for what's bound to come.

Instead, there's a moment of silence. In a deadly calm voice, Isabelle turns to me and says, "We're not."

"We're not...what?" I ask, nervous and biting on my bottom lip.

"Make something up for the report back to Imogen. Assure her that everything's fine and we've already met with Sebastian successfully. Keep the part about the rivalry between him and Jace to a minimum because we don't really know what's going on just yet. Definitely omit him shooting and being shot, too." She says it with so much ferocity that I blink. Isabelle's always had a certain rebellious streak in her, but never could I have guessed that it runs _this_ far and deep.

"Are you sure that's a good idea? What if she finds out?"

She stares me in the eye. "We'll make sure she won't."

* * *

"WELL, HOW BAD is it?" Isabelle demands.

Simon shrugs and strips off bloody gloves. "Not too bad."

"How bad is not too bad?" The annoyance in her voice is evident.

He raises an eyebrow and looks at her from above his thin glasses. Slowly, he replies, "He got shot, so it's bad. He's alive, so it's not too bad."

Before Isabelle can rip Simon's head in two, I step between them and introduce each other. "Isabelle, this is Simon. Simon, Isabelle."

"A _pleasure_ to meet you," he says with a small smile and holds out a pale hand, which she blatantly ignores. He takes it back unhurriedly and I grab his arm, leading him to a distance where Isabelle wouldn't be able to eavesdrop from.

"How bad is it really?" I ask, my voice hushed.

"I told you, no vital organs hit. No internal bleeding, not too much blood loss. He'll be fine," Simon says, waving me off. "A severe case of muscle inflammation and atrophy, though. Who is he?"

I hesitate before saying, "Ex-addict."

"Not a lot of symptoms for one," he notes easily, and then looks at me. "You're not thinking about getting into Pandemonium, are you?"

Sometimes I love Simon for his carefree personality. You ask him something, he doesn't ask you back. But sometimes he's so outrageously silly that you forget the mastermind beneath the mask. I tell myself to be more careful around him, and then shake my head. "Not in a million years. I'm going temporarily undercover with him to check out the market. Nothing with drugs."

"Hmm," he muses. "I had a friend who said the same thing, and came back begging me for fentanyl. He told me he couldn't be a member without passing an injection."

I shiver in horror at his words and rub my bare arms, still in the sparkly dress. He notices but doesn't do anything. Typical Simon - he'd kill himself over a cancer patient but doesn't care about a cold. Then again, he doesn't usually deal with disease. At least, not once in the time I've met him. I could come for tea after lunch and walk into him stitching up a slit in someone's thigh, or sadistically prodding the skin around a dislocated shoulder. I'd walk straight back out into the hallway, but by then several of the neighbours have opened their doors to glare at me, and believe me when I say they're not the normal cookie-baking grandmas. One guy took up the entire doorway, leaving me shaking. Then Simon would come out of nowhere and drag me into the apartment with one hand and pushing the ready-to-go patient out the other. I'd call him a lifesaver, but he just doesn't make me feel the love.

"Wh-what happened to him?" I ask, unable to keep the stutter out of my voice.

He grins maliciously and leans in, creating a dark shadow over me that makes him look like a demon. In a deadly soft voice he whispers, "He nearly strangled me to death when I told him I didn't have any more, screaming and wailing like some wild banshee..."

My breath catches in my constricted throat.

Then Simon moves away and tosses the gloves inside-out into the trash can like nothing happened. "Then he fell dead. Oh well."

He steps away from me leisurely and strolls to Isabelle, leaving me with a hanging mouth. Then he looks back at me but directs his next words to both me and Isabelle. "That boy of yours should be awake by now. He pinched me on the car. Pinch him back, if you please."

* * *

 **Question #1:** What do you think of Simon? How would you describe him if you had only one word? I'm going for eccentric. Insane wouldn't be an overstatement, either.

 **Question #2:** Are you guys digging the Sizzy so far? Is it an okay beginning to their relationship? Leave me your thoughts!

 **Review.**

 **-RtMiP**


	7. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing but the plot.

 **Notice #1:** A couple of you wanted Nurse Clary vs. Sassy Jace in this chapter (I do too) so here it is! I hope it meets your expectations though...

 **Notice #2:** I know it's summer, but I actually have less free time (to write) than the school year due to classes and stuff. That's why this chapter is out so late in the week. I'll try to update on Sunday again but I'm making no promises.

* * *

I THOUGHT HE'D be drowsy, or in pain at the least. Instead, Jace is staring calmly at the concaved ceiling with his golden eyes, hands resting behind his head. He's in a clean white shirt that's actually the right size, but then I remember how tall Simon is. Involuntarily, I scowl, wondering what it would take to make Jace the least bit indifferent.

Isabelle bounds to the tiny single bed that's so short his feet stick out the bottom, and makes herself at home beside him. I, on the other hand, stay back at the door with Simon, who has his arms folded across his chest and eyes squinted slightly at the couple. His mouth twitches once before he says to no one in particular, "Can it get any more fake?"

"What do you mean?" I ask, turning to him.

He shrugs. "It's so obvious you guys are not actually being paid to be his peeler. You're his _peeler_.* Get it?"

"No, actually, I don't." Then I pause, both confused and worried. "What makes you say it's so obvious?"

"See, Clary," Simon says ominously and taps the doorframe with his fingers, "the only way to make it seem like you're in love with him is if you really are."

My face flushes and I smack him on the shoulder. I remember when I first met him - it was on an unfortunate day when my high heel got caught in a sewer lid and I twisted by ankle, and down the street comes a tall dark-haired boy who claimed he could make me all better with a magic word. It didn't take nearly that little amount of time, but I was impressed nonetheless and asked about his profession. Told me he was a doctor. Didn't fool me, especially since one look around his apartment told me otherwise. Fast-forward two months and he asked me out on a date. It wasn't terrible, but strangely his bizarre personality struck me more as friend material instead. So now whenever I need help, I ask Shrink Simon. Except he doesn't always help in the ways I want him to, such as now.

Isabelle hops away from her tiny ledge on the bed and comes over to me with an alluding expression. I roll my eyes when I understand what she's getting at and take her spot gingerly. Jace is still looking at the ceiling. I turn back to silently ask Isabelle for advice, but she and Simon have already made their escape.

Damn it.

"You going to just sit there or what?"

"So what if I am?" I snap, crossing my arms and obstinately looking anywhere but his face. It isn't as easy as it sounds.

I can feel his eyes on me when he says, "You're not planning on kissing the boo-boo?"

"I would, but I don't think I could stop myself from doing more damage than already is," I seethe.

"That's why you shouldn't be a police wannabe. Be a wrestler or something. They do plenty of damage."

"Yeah, and you should still be in jail. Be grateful." I let the sentence rest for a couple moments before blurting out, "Why did you _have_ to run out without my permission? You may as well be dead now."

"Because you're not my mom, ma'am, and _you_ should be grateful for that," he says in an infuriatingly drawled out manner.

"Believe me, I am."

It's under my breath but Jace seems to hear it anyway. A smile growing on his face, he muses, "I technically saved your life, didn't I?"

"When?" The menace has left my voice; all that's left is wonder and bewilderment.

"The window? The bullet?" he reminds me, and I wrinkle my nose.

"The alley? The bullet?"

He scoffs and arches an eyebrow. "You were obligated to do that while I, on the other hand, did it out of the kindness of my heart."

"Search up the definition of 'kindness,' please."

"I guess you'd have to do that for me. I'm not," he says and gestures gloatingly at himself, "exactly in the condition to find a dictionary. Although I'm sure someone as... _knowledgeable_ as you can certainly define it for me?"

I roll my eyes and get up from the bed so quickly I'm lightheaded, which is strange because I haven't been sitting all that long. That's when I see something tiny resting on a plastic lid by the nightstand, tiny and bronze and nearly flat. Jace follows my gaze and his gold eyes narrow infinitisimally. I pick up the shiny object and immediately recognize it to be a used bullet, except for the fact that it's... _my_ used bullet. Fired from a STI 1911 Lawman. I squint and then realize something - this should be the bullet that hit Jace, so why is it from precisely the same firearm I use? Before Jace can ask why I'm so interested in such a small artifice, I put the bullet back onto the lid and act as careless as I can. "Pity this thing didn't shut you up."

"Sure," he says.

I blink.

Is that it? All he has to say is 'sure'? I'm sure my expression is beyond perplexed, but I'm wondering too hard what _did_ make him shut up so abruptly. Maybe he's not as obnoxious as he seems to be? Maybe he's giving up on spiting me? Maybe...or maybe something's distracting him, like the bullet. He's not going to get PTSD, is he? No, he's _killed_ before. Sure, Imogen told me his last kill was at the age of seventeen, so technically he couldn't have been put into prison with the rest of the bad guys, but the memory of him pulling that trigger on the assassin earlier today without blinking an eye still frightens me. What if he does it to me?

I nod absentmindedly and walk backwards out the room, only to bump into Simon. I jump and have to hold back a curse, wondering how on Earth he always manages to materialize out of thin air at the worse and best of times. "Christ, Simon, say something, will you?"

He reaches past me to close the door, and then resumes his signature stance - arms crossed over his chest, expression skeptical, and leaning on something. "Jace hates you."

"Gee, thanks for stating the obvious, Sherlock," I say sarcastically and offer a fake smile.

He lifts one shoulder. "Hey, you asked me to say something. Don't go all sissy on me."

"Whatever. Where's Isabelle?" I ask, looking around the empty room.

"I told her my medical diploma was in the attic," he replies, "and I locked her in."

" _SIMON, YOU MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE! LET ME OUT THIS INSTANT-_ "

"Hold on a sec," he says to me, and pops in some earbuds. He smiles and shouts, "If the neighbours come asking about the noise, say that that girl of yours is up there catching mice!"

"What-" I start, and then realize it's pointless. He won't be able to hear me anyway.

" _I'M COUNTING TO THREE AND IF YOU DON'T COME UP RIGHT NOW, I'M BASHING A HOLE THROUGH THE CEILING!"_

I groan.

* * *

 ***peeler** \- slang for police officer, but also another word for stripper

 **On Simon:** I realized that I didn't make it very clear in this chapter or the previous one, but Simon's not actually a certified doctor. He's more like someone people go to when they got injured during illegal activities and don't want the police to get involved. He also doesn't get as much money as real doctors do, but he gets a lot of patients so in reality he's actually extremely rich. But not even Clary knows that - she thinks he's an aspiring doctor that doesn't have any luck. She also doesn't know that his patients are basically criminals.

 **Question #1:** What do you think about the gun/bullet thing? Is there something fishy about the bullet matching Clary's gun...?

 **Question #2:** Anyone wants Simon to continue 'bullying' Isabelle or should I get them together sooner?

 **Review.**

 **-RtMiP**


	8. Chapter 7

**Notice:** I'm alive. :)

 **Disclaimer:** I own nothing but the plot.

* * *

"CLARY! CLARY!" SOMEONE is shaking me violently so that my head hits my pillow over and over again. I hiss and open my eyes to a panicked Isabelle whose hair is frayed and dancing with static.

I sit up groggily and nearly fall off the couch, blinking a few times to remove the remaining traces of disorientation. The walls are covered with gory skeletons and skulls and there are posters of 70s' rock bands I don't recognize. Definitely not my room.

Isabelle snaps her fingers sharply by my ear, making me cringe, and whisper-shouts, "Jace is gone!"

"What?" I clear my throat thickly and repeat more alertly, "What do you mean?"

"The bastard who got shot? The guy we're pretending to be strippers for? Hello? Earth to Clary? Do I need to wake Simon up to check if you suddenly got amnesia?"

Jace... _Oh FUCK_. "Jace is _gone_?! How?"

She straightened and crossed her arms. "Ran out the front door."

I rub my face and force myself awake. "But you're supposed to look after him!"

"Yeah, but he was fast."

I give her my deadliest glare.

She sighs and says, "Okay, that was before I knew the level of 'fast' you were talking about. Can we just please think of a way to find him?"

A moment of silence cuts between us, with me staring at the door and Isabelle staring at the window.

"Maybe someone captured him. Karma," I offer without enthusiasm.

"Clary, I _saw_ him run out."

"Okay, then maybe he needed to go to the bathroom. The one in here is disgusting."

"Unless he's seriously constipated, I don't think it'd take him twenty minutes for a potty break."

"Maybe he went back to face Sebastian." I wince at the thought of having to return to Pandemonium and turn the 'he' into a 'we'. And that's when I finally become awake. "Where's my gun?"

Isabelle's eyes widen and she races into Jace's room. She comes back empty-handed, and I hold back an urge to scream. Why couldn't he just have waited for us and go with him?

Just what the hell is he up to?

* * *

THE INSTITUTE IS so much more ominous at night. Pillars draw shadows onto the ground and every crunch of gravel sounds like a thousand undead digging up the earth. I hug my arms around my new dress, one that thankfully provides more coverage. Isabelle, in the meantime, is strutting like a proud goose in her strapless and glittering crop top and skirt. I admire her ability to put up with the cold.

We quietly make our way up the steps to the door and I hesitate, racking my brain for the pattern that Jace performed on the knocker. Just as I'm about to ask whether she paid attention yesterday, Isabelle walks up and boldly bangs against the wood for what seems to be the correct number of times. A familiar pair of blue eyes stare at us for a moment through the slot and then the door eases open to reveal Alec. I feel myself deflate in relief and follow Isabelle through the entrance. Before I can step over the threshold, however, I feel a hand grind into my shoulder and I look up to see Alec's frigid eyes narrow. The thundering of my heart is hard enough to be felt through my skin.

And then he releases his hold and walks in behind Isabelle, leaving me to shut the door. My hand hovers over the bolts, and then I decide against it. If we need to make a quick escape, the bolts might hinder us.

I run a little to catch up with the two, who are now heading through a side door that's invisible if you don't know where to look. The smell hits me first-not the pungent beer odor I'd been expecting, but rather a sweet, heady fragrance that makes me sway a little. Quickly shaking out of it, I remind myself that Pandemonium is the exact reason why one shouldn't judge a book by its cover; no doubt it hides something sinister. I slip in after Isabelle, who's lost a bit of her confidence. Maybe she's felt the strange atmosphere too.

The second the door closes behind me, I freeze.

This is wrong. This is just...

Alec spreads his hands and then lets them drop to his side.

"Welcome to Pandemonium."

* * *

NO. _NO_. THIS isn't right. Something about this feels so completely off, like a box sold as baking powder actually contains gunpowder. I shiver from head to toe as I take in the scene in front of me.

There are three lines leading to three different booths. The one nearest us consists of about a dozen people of all classes and occupations-there's a woman in a power blazer that looks like a criminal lawyer, a man in rags but holding a loaded bag of what seems to be coins, and a mother clutching the hand of an infant. The only thing they have in common is their facial expression, stoic but with eyes blazing with fear. The middle line is different: there were only five, all were dressed in black with a few even being hooded, and the faces I _can_ see all seem...bored. Bored, like this was a tedious everyday errand that had to be run. Bored, like they're Pulitzer Prize winners being forced to read a child's incoherent fairy tale. But it's the last line that catches my attention. There wearing the same clothes as the ones in the second line, but in their hands are a small black pouch of similar if not equal size, and I watch as the man in front throws the pouch onto the counter where a chipper-looking young girl picks it up, checks its contents, smiles, and brings out a bulking envelope. The man's face contorts with fury and the girl's eyes widen. He leans over the counter and she cowers away.

"Excuse me for a moment, ladies," Alec says, and I jump a little. I almost forgot he's here with us.

He walks towards the agitated man in black and whispers something into his ear. The man's eyes dart sharply towards the package and I can see his jaw work for a few seconds before he snatches it up and leaves the line. He collides with my shoulder and shoves me back a step, making me flinch. I prepare to give him a scathing look but he's already gone, the door still shut as if he'd miraculously whisked away in a column of smoke. Something in my gut tells me that that black pouch wasn't for an eight ball.* Alec's voice brings me back to the situation at hand.

"Sorry about that," he says airily, although he doesn't sound particularly sorry. "Are you a customer or - "

"Actually, we're looking for - " Isabelle starts.

" - a position," I quickly finish. "Jace recommended this place to us."

At that, Alec raises an eyebrow. "I thought he brought you here to keep him company."

I scoff as naturally as I can, but it comes out more like a choking sound than anything else. "Please, one sexist man in our lives is enough for the both of us. What, us women can't find a way to make a living by ourselves?"

His eyes narrow again, and then he shrugs. "Sure, but you're going to have to go through Initiation and apply for the job you want. We don't really have any spots for you, but you can always get rid of the existing ones."

"What do you mean, 'get rid of'?" I ask, dread running through my blood.

Alec blinks. And then laughs. "Nice joke."

Isabelle smirks and elbows me subtly. I croak out an unconvincing chuckle. "What can I say? I'm a funny person. So, about that job... I was thinking we could get something along the lines of what Jace has. You know, so we can get to see him everyday."

His smile fades and his expression turns dark. "He has to go through Initiation again if he wants to rejoin Pandemonium. Bring him here tomorrow and you three can do it together."

Isabelle and I glance at each other, and she asks, "So he's not here?"

"What makes you think he's here?" Alec opens the door and invites us out. "Isn't he with you?"

I try to cover it up with, "Of course he's with us. She meant 'not here' as in 'not a part of Pandemonium.'"

Isabelle pouts and blows out an exasperated breath of air. "What a liar. He told us he was part of Pandemonium and the earlier conversation with that Sebastian guy was a bromance thing. I only signed up because he seemed so mysterious, and I get this? Bo-ring!"

Alec chuckles and shakes his head as he walks us out, but not before I steal one last look at the three lines. "Sounds like Jace."

"Yeah, whatever. Let's go, Claire," Isabelle says and begins to leave. She turns back when I don't budge. " _Claire!_ "

I snap back into motion, almost slapping myself for forgetting my undercover name. We hastily exit the Institute-the bolt's fallen back into its place-and head back to Simon's. The first thing I notice is the dim yellow light shining through the sixteenth floor window, and from then on we're bolting up the stairs, avoiding the elevator for fear of being seen by the other inhabitants of the building. Panting, I burst into the apartment and the first thing I see is Simon stitching up the arm of a tall Asian girl. If it weren't for the dire emergency at hand, I'd be almost intimidated by her beauty.

"Where's Jace?" Isabelle demands, suddenly looking the scariest.

Simon looks up at her nonchalantly and squints as if he can't tell if she's being serious or not.

" _Where's Jace?"_ she repeats, this time more forcefully.

"Look, hun, I don't know what you've been hooked up on, but-"

" _WHERE THE FUCK IS JACE?!_ "

He holds up his hands in surrender and points to Jace's room. "Right where you left him."

"Impossible," I breathe, and race into the room.

There he is, rearranging the assortment of antibiotic pills on the wall shelf. My eyes find my gun and I run to it and immediately check the bullet count. Only two less. One for the dead man and one for the man who is about to get killed by me.

I whirl on him and before he can react, I grab him by his collar and shove him against the wall with strength I didn't know I had. "You lied."

Jace laughs. "Last time I checked, people didn't get arrested for lying."

"Technically, we can detain you for obstruction-" Isabelle begins.

"You shot yourself, didn't you?" I seethe. Jace remains emotionless. "The bullet found in you? Shot from _my_ gun. _My_ Lawman. Who was the man you killed, hmm? Was this all scripted?"

He opens his mouth to say something, but I'm far from finished. "You put that bullet in you when I wasn't looking, had me bring you here, and be sorry for getting you hurt, didn't you? And what were you going to do? Run away? Why'd you come back?"

"You felt sorry for me?" he mused, a smile dancing on his _very_ kissable lips. "I never knew you were capable of - "

I slam him against the wall again. "Where did you go?"

" - feeling guilty. Aren't you a funny little thing?"

At this point I'm so angry I can't see straight. This little punk waltzes into my life determined to flip it upside-down. I definitely won't let him, and before I can think about the consequences, I grab the nearest object-a pair of scissors-and jams its handle right into his bullet wound. My voice is a deadly whisper when I ask, " _Where. Did. You. Go?_ "

The blood drains from his face and I'm so close to him I can see a vein in his forehead pop from the pain. Some part of me feels sorry, but the other more rational part tells me that this is the only way I'm ever going to get answers.

"If I die," he manages breathlessly, "you'll be a murderer."

I actually laugh at that. "This is coming _from_ a murderer. Seriously, Jace?"

Blood's starting to seep through his shirt and I lessen the pressure infinitesimally. "Do you think this is some sort of a sick prank? There are people _dying_ out there thanks to the people thriving in _there_. You might think this doesn't matter and it doesn't apply to you, but it does. Don't you want out, Jace? Don't you want to have the satisfaction of seeing the bad guys be put away? Don't you - "

He shoves me away so hard I stumble and land onto the bed, feet in a tangle. His chest rises and falls quickly and his hand is pressed tightly to the now soaked shirt. When he speaks, his voice is the softest and angriest I've ever heard from him. "You know what Imogen offered me as a reward to help you fuckers out with this case? Three hundred years lessin that dark, wet cell. And you know what that leaves me with? Another _t_ _hree hundred years in that dark, wet cell_. So I'm _sorry_ if I think that this shit doesn't apply to me, because it _doesn't_. I'm only taking on this case because...because..."

He stops, and I somehow find my voice again. "Because of what?"

His eyes shine with a strange emotion. Not anger or hatred. I realize, with a painful pang of my heart, that he looks tired. His tawny hair is a mess, flying in every direction possible, and the dark circles beneath his eyes seem to be pulling down towards the ground. His hand drops from his stomach and hangs by his side lifelessly, as if he's a machine slowly losing the ability to function.

"Because of nothing. Maybe being a straitjacket all day for two years has finally forced some kindness into me," he says after a pause.

Of course I don't buy it. But before I can say anything else, Jace smirks. "Isn't there something about girls needing their REM sleep? Get that skin looking all delicious - "

"Jace..."

"Look, if I need to leave again, I'll leave you a note or something, okay?" He fakes a yawn. "Now get out. Your mere presence is staining this room and I don't want to clean it again."

Strangely, the insult doesn't make me feel as bad as it should, but I stand up shakily, take the gun, and leave anyway. Isabelle's by the door, surprisingly silent, and moves to turn off the light. The last thing I see before the room goes dark is Jace limping to the bed and looking right into my green eyes with his golden ones.

I close the door.

* * *

 ***eight ball:** a unit for measuring drugs, especially coke, meth, and heroine

 **On the hiatus:** Ugh I'm sooooo sorry! The summer was so stressful that I completely forgot about writing and when grade nine started I forgot about it some more. I reread the previous chapters to remind me about the story but things might not be completely consistent. Again, I'm super sorry for dropping this story for like, seven months, and I promise I'll try to write more. Meanwhile I'll be working on some Clace oneshots so if you could check those out too I'd greatly appreciate it!

 **On** **Clary:** I realized that Clary semi-stabbing Jace comes off of kind of violent for Clary, but I hope it doesn't make her seem cruel.

 **On the chapter:** This chapter asks a lot of questions and doesn't provide many answers. They will hopefully be answered in the near future!

 **Question #1:** Can any of you spin a wild story about Jace's reason for helping Clary and Isabelle? There aren't many clues but it's really interesting to read the things you guys come up with.

 **Question #2:** What do you think Pandemonium is really about? What's really inside the black pouch?

 **Review.**

 **-RtMiP**


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